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12-25-2016, 08:25 AM
Art by Neverr ♥
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
It poured out of him, an avalanche of poison and bitterness, of hurt and longing and unrequited love; he said nothing of Ophelia, nothing of Kahlua, nothing of Tembovu, nothing of d'Artagnan.
Nothing of anyone he had ever loved, of Isir, the blow to have shattered his fragile glass soul, and the memories the scent of blood and winter brought him. He only said that he wanted to set the world on fire, reduce it to the rubble their morals was, turn it into a mirror of their souls; a wasteland. A place where nothing could grow, where nothing could bloom.
A place where nothing could dream.
But that one sentence, a hoarse whisper from a wounded soul, held all of these things, a dangerous compound of love and fear. Dry eyes, burning from within with all the things awoken but held back, stared at Alysanne in a way that was not normal, or courteous, or anything within the standard ramifications of social interaction: it was hungry and violent, as if his very gaze could strip the flesh from her bones and dig up the secrets buried in her heart.
He didn't mean to, to be the infernal demon in the gentle snowfall, his wild eyes betraying what had been unleashed but he tried to tame; he didn't mean to, but he still did, gaze burning.
And he hadn't meant to bring her down with him, either.
She flinched; he flinched, within, limbs frozen and rooted to the ground as he struggled against himself. He wanted to scream, to let it all out in a violent explosion of phoenixes, to drain his heart with spikes of ice punching out of the deceptive snow-cover—but he didn't. The frustration had two heads, one snapping at Alysanne that she should not be so afraid of the things which kill us, and the other snapped at himself, saying look at what you did to her. If a single sentence, breathed with all the fury and hopelessness wrought from pain, could bring out such a reaction in her..
He could destroy her.
He dragged in a deep breath, shamed by her closed eyes and the croak creeping out of her mouth, distorted by what he could only guess was some kind of fear. It burned almost as hot as the pain itself, scorching the inside of his skin, blackening soul and bones as he looked aside, mouth a thin line. "I'm sorry," he said, but his voice was cruel and hard, biting down on everything he wanted to do, even as his teeth bit his tongue and blood formed like a wet shadow on his black lips.
“Surely it is not all worth burning down?” He kept looking away from her, staring at the trees as if they could somehow give him some kind of answer, or even a voice to speak it with. If all Helovia carried a sickness, didn't all of it need to be purged?
But if everyone died, and every terrain marker laid to waste, how would anyone be able to come back? And find him, lord of nothing but ash and deserts made from pulverized bones?
"No," he said, voice clipped, still hard as the glacier ice. "But one pain can obscure another, and sometimes, the line between agony and insanity is very thin."
Nothing of anyone he had ever loved, of Isir, the blow to have shattered his fragile glass soul, and the memories the scent of blood and winter brought him. He only said that he wanted to set the world on fire, reduce it to the rubble their morals was, turn it into a mirror of their souls; a wasteland. A place where nothing could grow, where nothing could bloom.
A place where nothing could dream.
But that one sentence, a hoarse whisper from a wounded soul, held all of these things, a dangerous compound of love and fear. Dry eyes, burning from within with all the things awoken but held back, stared at Alysanne in a way that was not normal, or courteous, or anything within the standard ramifications of social interaction: it was hungry and violent, as if his very gaze could strip the flesh from her bones and dig up the secrets buried in her heart.
He didn't mean to, to be the infernal demon in the gentle snowfall, his wild eyes betraying what had been unleashed but he tried to tame; he didn't mean to, but he still did, gaze burning.
And he hadn't meant to bring her down with him, either.
She flinched; he flinched, within, limbs frozen and rooted to the ground as he struggled against himself. He wanted to scream, to let it all out in a violent explosion of phoenixes, to drain his heart with spikes of ice punching out of the deceptive snow-cover—but he didn't. The frustration had two heads, one snapping at Alysanne that she should not be so afraid of the things which kill us, and the other snapped at himself, saying look at what you did to her. If a single sentence, breathed with all the fury and hopelessness wrought from pain, could bring out such a reaction in her..
He could destroy her.
He dragged in a deep breath, shamed by her closed eyes and the croak creeping out of her mouth, distorted by what he could only guess was some kind of fear. It burned almost as hot as the pain itself, scorching the inside of his skin, blackening soul and bones as he looked aside, mouth a thin line. "I'm sorry," he said, but his voice was cruel and hard, biting down on everything he wanted to do, even as his teeth bit his tongue and blood formed like a wet shadow on his black lips.
“Surely it is not all worth burning down?” He kept looking away from her, staring at the trees as if they could somehow give him some kind of answer, or even a voice to speak it with. If all Helovia carried a sickness, didn't all of it need to be purged?
But if everyone died, and every terrain marker laid to waste, how would anyone be able to come back? And find him, lord of nothing but ash and deserts made from pulverized bones?
"No," he said, voice clipped, still hard as the glacier ice. "But one pain can obscure another, and sometimes, the line between agony and insanity is very thin."
